


The Love Boat

by Three Post Problem (Klashcroft)



Series: Quill and Ink [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klashcroft/pseuds/Three%20Post%20Problem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets back from visiting New Zealand with Sarah, and Sherlock is so happy to have him home that he celebrates by immediately dragging John off to solve a case on a cruise ship. The master detective might just have neglected to mention that it's an all-men's gay cruise, and their cover requires them to pose as a couple. John is suitably outraged... but maybe the whole debacle will help clarify some of the unresolved issues between the doctor and the detective.</p>
<p>AKA: The legal appeal isn't the only reason why John took down his blog post about the 'Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love Boat

**Author's Note:**

> Private BBC Sherlock roleplay that's being posted for public consumption, so POV and timeframe swap back and forth at each break. Quill writes John (and Basil), Ink writes Sherlock (and Bryn).
> 
> Also: Finally, Johnlock!

 

 

When he returned from New Zealand, John had rather looked forward to getting back into the swing of things at 221B Baker Street. Though he's a sturdy traveller, the return flight from Christchurch had been a hard one for the doctor, and had included a terribly awkward and very unplanned overnight stay in Abu Dhabi with Sarah. With that behind him, all he wanted to do was reinstate himself in his chair, relax, and let Sherlock's natural vortex spiral him out of the depression he could feel lingering at the edges of his mind.  

The thing was, he honestly did not expect the vortex to catch him up quite so quickly. There was no point in arguing; Sherlock was forceful and extremely insistent.  _No time to rest, John, there's a case at hand! Travel!_  (But I've just been--)  _Adventure!_  (I don't want--) _Intrigue... a mystery!_  (Are you even listeni--)

Had the excitable detective bothered to ask, John would have told him that a 5-day cruise out of Southend-On-Sea to Amsterdam was not what he wanted to do after a bittersweet trip to the other side of the world. The detective, of course, did not ask. 

John didn't even have a chance to unpack. 

Now, clutching a small overnight bag crammed with toiletries, his laptop, and an extra jumper (Sherlock had assured him almost violently that all their packing was taken care of-- when John had seemed sceptical, the detective invoked the name of Mrs. Hudson, who was perfectly capable of ensuring the luggage included everything they'd need, John, don't insult the poor woman, you know how she'll go on), John paces at Sherlock's side into the embarkation area. Their boarding pass numbers have just been called, and the tall man and the blogger are now part of a milling crowd heading towards the gangway that leads up into the ship.

"I haven't been to Amsterdam since I was 21," John says to Sherlock over the noise of the crowd. "The things we got up to!" Drugs, women, general debauchery. The same thing everyone does in Amsterdam, to be fair. That's pretty much what Amsterdam is for. "Ever been?"

There's something odd here, John thinks, as he ducks past a bear of a man wearing a very tight pair of jeans. He fishes in his pocket for his boarding pass and chews on his lip. Something strange. He can't quite put his finger on it.

Then, suddenly, he has it.

"...There are an awful lot of blokes here, Sherlock," John says, brow wrinkling as a young man wearing a low-cut top pushes past him. 

 

 

The past two weeks have been absolutely dreadful.  
  
Sherlock was able to understand, or at least act like he understands, why John needed to get away. It makes sense if you're a normal, emotionally capable person-- the doctor has been through a lot since moving in to 221B. It's perfectly rational, and definitely doesn't have anything to do with their conversation, or the fact that they never really talked about it again after that.  
  
And he's definitely not even  _remotely_  jealous of the fact that John's gone to the other side of the world for two weeks with that boring woman.  
  
The extended time alone wasn't too bad... at first. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. That entertained him for about three minutes, before he realized that he does that regardless. It didn't take long for Lestrade to tell Sherlock to stop calling so often. Desperate for something to do, he almost resorted to checking in with Mycroft. (He didn't, until he needed his brother's help with a.. little something, near the end of those two weeks).  
  
He knew that his reaction to John's return would be a little overly-exuberant, which might in turn terrify the poor man. Especially if part of what he needed to get away from was their... situation. So Sherlock arranged to be 'away' when John arrived at 221B, coming home after the doctor had retired and leaving before he woke. Naturally, the detective was spying on his flatmate-- it wasn't hard to deduce that things had gone south with the girlfriend, so he swung by a shop the next day for some beer. Well-timed comments on John's blog completed his preparations, allowing him to return home (hopefully) without being too enthusiastic.  
  
That wasn't entirely successful, especially when John seemed disinclined to accompany him on the case he'd set up specifically for his return. But Sherlock wasn't about to let that stop him, not after spending two extremely boring weeks alone.  
  
To say that the detective looks excited would be an understatement in the extreme. This is going to be great, a mystery AND a chance to spend time with John away from anyone either of them could possibly know. No preconceptions, no worries. He has no idea just how wrong he probably is.  
  
"Ever been?" He echoes John's question, raising one brow. Did the doctor really, honestly just ask that? Sherlock actually laughs, resting a hand casually upon John's shoulder. Time to fit in with the locals~  
  
"Of course there are, John. Didn't you see the pamphlet I left for you?"

 

 

Yes, well, he meant _'did you go to Amsterdam with your mates when you were young in order to have a social experience'_ , not  _'have you gone to Amsterdam alone to put yourself in a drug-induced coma'_ , Sherlock. But he lets it lie. "You didn't leave me a pamphlet," John replies, "You didn't even give me the name of the cruise line. Or let me pack," he reminds the taller man.

The casual touch earns Sherlock a short sideways glance; odd, he's not usually so exuberant. But then, he has been pretty high strung since John got back; the beer, the strange conversation wherein Sherlock became almost a caricature of a Normal Guy chatting with Another Normal Guy to help him through a breakup, followed by a hilariously quick shedding of that persona and an abrupt return to his usual self. A pair of men squeeze past holding hands, and the doctor is distracted from the faint weight of his companion's hand. Hmm.

No pamphlet. Lots of blokes.  _Huh._  A sneaking suspicion begins to form, but has almost no time at all to develop into a real hypothesis; they move with the crowd, round a corner, and there it is. A jaunty banner hangs just ahead of them over the check-in kiosk. 

**_~All Gay, All The Way... To Amsterdam! Bon Voyage, Boys!~_ **

"Sherlock." With his free hand, John snatches suddenly at the detective's coat sleeve. "Not-- n _ot funny,_  Sherlock!"

But it's too late. The crowd pushes them forward, and unless John wants to fight his way in a panic through a few hundred happy men of all shapes and sizes and fashions, he's going to have to go along with it. And hardly a moment later, they're up at the kiosk, and confronted by a cruise-line representative wearing a tight shirt, a jaunty cap, and a very large smile. "Hi!" he says, in a sing-song way that reminds John uncomfortably of another high-pitched greeting given to them not too long ago by a certain consulting criminal. "I'm sure you chaps know the drill. Hand 'em over!" Passes, please!

When the boarding passes are scanned, a jaunty little tune goes off that draws attention from other passengers and nearby staff. An excited murmur goes up. "Oh!" The man gushes, "Well, aren't you boys lucky? Looks like you've won yourselves a free upgrade to one of our fabulously romantic suites! Let me just get you your new room assignment." Mycroft sends his love, Sherlock. "There'll be champagne!"

John blinks twice. Then he turns his head to stare at the detective, and he says absolutely nothing.

 

 

"Oh, you may have still been away," he deflects John's denial casually, but the hand upon the shorter man's shoulder doesn't go away. His grip is light, a constant pressure, and he rubs his thumb gently along the doctor's shoulder blade.  
  
Sherlock is trying so, so hard not to laugh-- he can't recall being this entertained in... at least two weeks. When John clutches at his coat sleeve he slides his hand off the ex-soldier's shoulder, neatly capturing that grasping hand within his own. "If you wanted to hold hands you only had to ask, dear," he purrs, tugging the good doctor along.  
  
This is going to be the best five days ever. A mystery to solve, and John to solve it with him. No meddling from Mycroft or Lestrade, no rules or responsibilities, and he gets to see how John looks in his fancy new outfits.  
  
The self-satisfied glow upon Sherlock's face would be disgusting, if it wasn't oddly endearing. His grip on John's hand is relentless-- those slender fingers are stronger than one might suspect-- but when that tune starts playing and the news of their 'prize' is announced the doctor can feel a quick, involuntary clench. Sherlock's eyes twitch, suspicious, but none of that penetrates the delighted mask he wears.  
  
"Did you hear that?" He turns to the silent doctor, false excitement on his face while he quickly mouths _'Not my fault'_ , "Champagne!" With an apologetic glance towards the shorter man, Sherlock accepts the room keys and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper to speak with the attendant. And, well, everyone within a 10 foot radius. "My man's the strong silent type, you know how it is."  
  
His hands move entirely too much, too flamboyantly, as he waves to the crowd and then urges John towards their new room.

  

 

The 'strong silent type' comment finally earns Sherlock some reciprocation; John's fingers clench violently. His return grip is like iron _. You will die for this._

John may seem trapped at the moment, but Sherlock should not take it as a victory. If he has any sense of self-preservation at all, he won't take  _any_  of this as a victory. Because this battle hasn't been won. It hasn't even been started. And when John collects the broken pieces of his shattered mind, pulls himself back together, and enters the battlefield, Sherlock Holmes will suffer terribly for this. The good doctor's mind is already coming up with a variety of ways to kill someone using only a champagne bottle.

Luckily for Sherlock, it looks as though he's not going to be picking up those broken pieces of his psyche in the next few minutes, which should be just enough time to ensure that the inevitable pending explosion takes place in the privacy of their room rather than in the presence of others. John is utterly expressionless, and more than one of the men they walk past look appreciatively at the ex-soldier. But it's pretty obvious that the deliciously-dangerous looking man only has eyes for his tall, pale, pretty boy. And who wouldn't, with those curls? The two leave sighs and wistful looks in their wake. Someone whistles. John's grip tightens again. 

They're right, too. John, his jaw clenched firmly, stares fixedly at Sherlock with a single-minded intensity during their entire 10-minute walk up the gangway, through the crowds, down the corridors, up an elevator, and through a spectacularly (and flamboyantly) decorated foyer. There are people  _everywhere_. John does not care. John sees nobody but Sherlock

It isn't long before they reach their room-- one of only a few prime suites located high on an upper deck. This hallway is far quieter. All Sherlock has to do is open the door, and they will have some semblance of privacy. John, though, is unable wait any longer to grate out two terrible words:

_"_ Sherlock. _Explain!"_

 

Sherlock? Self-preservation? There aren't many situations in which the two can be used in the same sentence. His response to John's iron grip? A slight twitch in his jaw, and then a gentle stroke of his thumb against the ex-soldier's hand. Oh, he's sure there will be a reckoning. He's just having far too much fun right now to worry about it until the time comes. Even if that time is only moments away.  
  
It's obvious that the detective delights in the attention they're drawing-- or that the persona he's wearing delights in it, the distinction isn't quite clear. He's almost prancing as he leads John to their room, offering shy flirtatious smiles to those men who ogle him, and a pale, fierce glare to those who dare to make eyes at John.  
  
And if Sherlock feels an alarming flutter deep in his gut every time he catches the dangerous look in John's eyes, well, that's entirely in-character as well.  
  
All too soon they've arrived, and the ex-soldier's fuse has run out just shy of the goal. "Shh," he exclaims dramatically, pressing his finger to John's lips-- an attendant comes around the corner, salutes with a flourish, and continues on-- "Wait until we get  _inside_ , darling." As the other man disappears down the hall Sherlock opens the door, pulling the doctor inside and shutting it firmly behind them.  
  
In a heartbeat, the act is dropped (along with John's hand) and the detective whirls about, hands pressed before his face. He's grinning, obviously quite pleased with himself. "Oh, marvelous. This is all going splendidly, couldn't have planned it better mys--" He stops dead, gaze fixed upon the bed.  
  
The room, by the way, is absolutely breathtaking. 'Romantic suite' doesn't mean 'tacky and overdone' as in Vegas-- the decor is modern, elegant and sumptuous while remaining understated. The entire suite is arranged with the massive bed as the focal point, raised as it is upon a dais. Chairs and other incidental furniture all point towards it, creating a strong subconscious pull towards the fixture.  
  
But it's not the feng shui of the room that has pulled Sherlock's attention to the bed. It's the items that lie upon it. Two roses. One lean and purple. The other shorter, more open, and yellow. Tied together with a ribbon, laying atop a small square of cardstock.  
  
Sherlock crosses the room with fierce ground-eating strides, plucking the bundle from the bed, and hissing quietly when he pricks his thumb on a thorn. He reads the card, and somehow seems both relieved and even more furious as a result.  
  
"Bastard."

 

 

There is a moment, when the door shuts. A single, sharp moment that hangs in the air like a crystal pendant that has just caught the light. In that moment, John Watson feels he is capable of almost anything. His hand releases his overnight bag, which thumps to the plush carpet with no care for the laptop inside. He takes a stiff step forward as Sherlock whirls away, and both hands rise to follow his movement and reach--

For the rest of his life, he'll never know whether he was about to attack Sherlock, or drag him close and set the field level by claiming him with a rough kiss.

But the moment is over before it occurs; the crystal shatters. Because when Sherlock's eyes fix on the roses, John's gaze follows with an almost instinctive jerk. The sight of the flowers raises the hair on the back of his neck, and a cold chill pours over him, washing his concerns about Sherlock's little act away as though the whole thing was of no consequence. In their flat, Moriarty's flowers are still there in the beaker, slowly drying into permanent fixtures. He'd almost forgotten what they looked like fresh.

John stays by the door, immediately switching to 'work mode'; he examines their surroundings with quick turns of his head, looking for any sign of hidden persons or dangerous traps or surveillance equipment. One hand reaches for the door handle, which will be the quickest escape route if they need to go that way. The charms of the room are lost on him; he'll absorb that later. If there is a later.

"Well?" He asks Sherlock sharply, when the other speaks. "What does it say?"

 

  

_"Enjoy the champagne. -Mycroft."_  
  
Disgust drops from his voice as he reads the note, thick and rich. Of  _course_  he knew. Ridiculous to think that he wouldn't, he must have missed the latest bug his brother had planted. Sherlock knew that getting Mycroft more involved in this case than he had to be was a mistake in the first place, and perhaps he went a little overboard when he heavily implied how much he needed his dear brother's help to dress John for a gay cruise. He expected some form of retaliation-- the romantic upgrade fit the bill.  
  
But this? This was vicious. Perhaps he was a bit more difficult on that shopping trip than he thought, he must have gotten to Mycroft to make the usually ever-so-proper man show his hand in this way. A warning, a reprisal, and a reminder that he knows more than he lets on all in one. Clever bastard.  
  
Sherlock wanders to the bar/kitchen area with his thumb in his mouth to suck on the wound, rummaging until he finds a tall glass for the roses. Flowers go in water, it's probably best not to question why he keeps doing this-- but it's a safe bet that they'll be stowed carefully in his luggage for the trip home.  
  
"It's fine, he's just proving a point. Arrogant sod," he waves a hand dismissively, indicating that the doctor can calm down. "Our luggage should be in the sitting area already." John will notice that there are two sets. One deep glossy purple and lined in black, the other a matte military green with rugged accents. His own bags are nowhere in sight, they must still be at the flat.  
  
The detective ignores the luggage for now, however. Instead, he flops into a chair and picks up the schedule on the coffee table, leaning back to look over the events.

 

 

John stands down on Sherlock's orders, slumping his shoulders almost dramatically.  _Mycroft_. In this case, the elder Holmes is absolutely the lesser of two evils, and the doctor is more relieved than he is angry. The adrenalin drains out of his body and he gives himself a short shake to speed it on its way. Whew. "Thank god," he mumbles, and takes a closer look at his surroundings.

Now that 'fight or flight' is not the only option, the doctor is free to execute a more thorough search of the room, which he does; striding purposefully across the thick carpet, he opens wardrobes, peeks into the bathroom (and comes out with an expression at once impressed and mortified), paces around the bed, and examines the sitting room with care. "New luggage?" It's obvious which is his. "But I didn't need new luggage," he says. The utilitarian, cheap, black set that he took to New Zealand did quite nicely; besides, on an army pension, it was all he could afford. He's stepping forward to undo the zipper of the largest green case, when he realises he left his bag by the door, and he goes back to the door to fetch it.

"So," he says, after placing the overnight bag on top of the other luggage. He sits carefully in the chair next to Sherlock; while the other lounges, he sits upright, forward in the seat. "Gay cruise." Yep. 

Luckily, perhaps, it seems like the Reckoning has been indefinitely postponed by the sudden flower scare. Now, the doctor seems quite calm.

He glances sideways at Sherlock. "I am assuming there actually  _is_  a case?" Because if there isn't, Sherlock, we need to have a Talk.

 

 

"Yes you did," he replies idly, still flipping through the schedule.

The detective appears to be entirely engrossed in his thoughts, only making idle noises here and there as John moves about the room and examines their surroundings. This looks interesting, hm... "Mmm, yes. Gay cruise." He rests a finger on an event, flips to the next page to check something, then looks back. Yes, that will do nicely.  
  
"Here," he tosses the schedule to the other man, leaning forward to prop his elbows up on his knees and rest his chin lightly upon steepled fingers. "We have the reception gala tonight, and we need to make an appearance at the cabaret tomorrow, but you should pick a few other events to take part in." John's question is ignored, his eyes are narrowed as Sherlock stares into the distance. Then he inhales sharply, double-takes. Right, explanation.  
  
"Ah, yes. Of course. Couples disappearing, all very mysterious."  
  
And then he's off again, bouncing to his feet and dragging his luggage over towards a dresser. "We have a few hours before the reception, best get unpacked so nothing wrinkles."

 

 

John catches the tossed schedule, but does not open it. "What? No. No, no-- that's fine. You go, I'll just-- stay here." In this room. For the next five days. It's big and comfortable, and with his laptop and the cruise ship's WiFi, he can blog about his woes (in a very discrete way) to the world while Sherlock runs around playing the fairy and solving crimes. Works for him. Well, it doesn't, but it works more than going back out into that crowd and feeling like a puffed-up peacock on display for all to see.

It suddenly comes to mind that the ship won't pull out of the harbour for another half an hour. If he can convince Sherlock he needs to stay in London for some reason... but no. It won't work, and John knows it. With a sigh, he tosses the unlooked-at schedule on the coffee table and stands, following Sherlock to the luggage with a resigned look on his face. Sherlock's right. Best unpack. He wants to get into something more comfortable anyway.

"Thanks for these," he says a bit belatedly, shifting his overnight bag in order to get at the largest of his new luggage. The set is actually rather nice, and suits John's tastes extremely well. He's not sure if Sherlock picked them, or a proxy, but either way it's something of a nice surprise. "They're great." And then he unzips the large case and flips the top open. 

And stares. "Sherlock, these aren't my clothes," he says. And after a heartbeat or two, he carefully lifts the top layer of fabric and peeks underneath. And then under that.  

"Wait." John says, with rising panic. There is an awful lot of  _colour_  in this luggage. "I'm not-- you can't think I'm wearing these?" 

The doctor looks between his companion and his suitcase, then straightens himself again and crosses his arms. Aw, look, it's his Decision Face. Although it should be said that John looks like nothing more than a petulant child as he hoods his eyes and lifts his chin, facing Sherlock squarely. "No.  _No_ , absolutely not. Out of the question. I'm not dressing up. I'm not leaving this room."  _You can't make me!_

 

  

"Out of the question," is the immediate reply as he carefully refolds a shirt and sets it in a drawer, "I'd be way too conspicuous on my own." Sherlock glances back at the doctor, gaze flicking up and down as he watches for the reaction to his gifts. He grins, "Suited you, I rather thought. Couldn't resist."

And then, the reveal. "Ah, yes. Well, your clothes were all packed up and on a plane at the time," he explains. Besides, John's typical attire isn't nearly appropriate enough for this excursion. But the doctor's reaction to the clothing isn't nearly as positive as he'd been hoping for. Sherlock frowns, tilts his head. Watches. Listens to John's little tantrum in silence.  
  
He doesn't reply for several long moments, his expression unreadable.  
  
And then a dangerous gleam sparks in his eyes as he turns away from his unpacking, taking slow, measured steps towards the doctor. "Now John," Sherlock begins, reaching out to lift one of John's new shirts. He sidesteps around the luggage, gently nudging the other man to face him directly, and holds the shirt up against his chest. "This is tailor-made to fit. Exquisitely cut, the colours chosen just to suit you." He pauses, grins. "And you have nothing else to wear."  
  
"Besides," the detective purrs, his demeanour instantly switching back to the public face he'll be wearing a LOT this week. He takes a step closer, nearly pressing the shirt between the two of them, and lifts a finger to trace it along John's jaw.  
  
"Who knows what  _trouble_  I'll get up to if you let me out of your sight on this ship?"

 

 

_I will not. I will not. I will not. I will -not-._  His brain is already chanting the mantra, as though sheer repetition will somehow cement his willpower and prevent any unintentional agreement to this  _insane_  scheme of Sherlock's. 

And then Sherlock is in front of him, turning him to one side and holding up a silk shirt like he's some sort of mannequin to be dressed up. His mouth twitches once. "I--I have an extra jumper," John points out, knowing in the instant he's said it how useless this battle is. And before he can regain himself, Sherlock is there-- right up against him, and John's forced to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. 

"I--" The doctor swallows compulsively; the movement of his jaw is transmitted through his skin to Sherlock's fingertip. Both of his brows cant upwards in concern. A slow, soft flush spreads across his nose and cheeks for the first time since that talk they had in the ruined kitchen. Well, there's still that, then.

His eyes close tightly, but he does not pull away. The detective has introduced a moral quandary hidden within the innuendo, and underneath the sexual context, the point of it strikes home. John is loyal; unfailingly so. Rarely do their cases resolve themselves without one or the both of them being in danger, and John, no matter how concerned he is about the idea Sherlock is presenting, would never be able to sit idly by while the detective put himself in harm's way. Leaving the cruise ship would be a betrayal that John would find more distressing in the long run than tolerating the next five days. And if Sherlock allowed him to stay in this luxuriant suite and sulk, and then went and got himself into trouble... well.

"...All right," he says. John opens his eyes, biting briefly on his lip. "All right."  _Oh god._  "But when we get home, Sherlock, you  _owe_  me." He intends on collecting, too. Just what he's going to collect, he doesn't say-- at least a week of a clean flat, Sherlock on his best behaviour, no body parts in the fridge, no experiments all over the place... he'll figure out something later. Just so Sherlock understands the deal. 

"I'm not wearing the lavender one," the good doctor asserts quietly, stepping back from Sherlock to give the suitcase a worried look.

 

 

"An extra jumper."

Sherlock knows that he's won this battle before John admits it to himself, the small smile he's wearing makes that perfectly clear. The doctor is going to look amazing in the suit he (Mycroft) picked out for him-- he'll definitely have to step up the jealous boyfriend act when they make their appearance. That won't be too difficult to manage, given how possessive the detective can be at times.  
  
 _There it is._  He smiles, gaze dipping from John's closed eyes to the flush to those teeth. Biting his lip? Interesting. Mycroft called John his toy, Moriarty called him his pet... right now? John is Sherlock's favourite experiment subject. The ex-soldier is just so delightfully responsive.

_"But when we get home, Sherlock, you owe me."_

He arches a brow at that, nods in assent, and then watches the doctor step away. The facade is dropped then, for poor John's sake-- Sherlock is back in business. One slender hand points towards the suit bag on the left side. "Suits tonight. No lavender, promise."  
  
"What should we call each other? Or you me, at least. Distinctive name, Sherlock. Could be recognized," he frowns, returning to his own luggage to pick through and decide on an outfit for tonight.  
  
"A pet name, perhaps?"

  

 

All right. All right, he can do this. John is a terrible actor, but he can do this. The doctor takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Tonight will be the hardest, and then perhaps he can encourage Sherlock towards some of the quieter events-- he'll have to take a good look at that schedule if he wants to have any control over where they go and what they do. Suits? Well, that's easy enough. A suit can't be all bad. 

By the time Sherlock brings up the name thing, John has already folded and put away many of his clothes-- he's placed them into two piles: What I Will Wear, and What I Won't Wear. Perhaps surprisingly, the lavender shirt has only a few companions in the Won't Wear pile. For the most part, although he certainly would never have picked them for himself, the shirts and trousers aren't completely outside his comfort zone. A few of the shirts even get a more-than-cursory inspection. One subtle dove-grey shirt is even lifted up to his chin in front of the wardrobe mirror, when he thinks Sherlock isn't looking.

John Watson has never in his life owned anything so expensive and yet designed to be put on one's body. He isn't a fashionable man, but he can tell from the cuts and the fabric that these outfits cost a small fortune; Sherlock must have gone to Mycroft for help. He's not even going to bother asking about how the Holmes brothers acquired accurate measurements to have these things tailored for him. He turns to the other man.

"I don't want to call you anything but Sherlock," he says firmly. "I'll just forget-- probably at an awkward time-- and then we'll both be buggered." 

There's a pause. John, realizing what he just said, looks at Sherlock. Pale eyes slowly meet his.

And they both burst out laughing.

 

 

As they prepare for the reception, Sherlock slips in and out of character-- partially for practice, partially to get John more accustomed to the game. He's watching the doctor even as his gaze seems to be directed randomly throughout the suite, pale eyes catching far more than any one person should be permitted to notice.

John's examination of the lovely grey shirt merits a small, private smile-- he rather likes that one himself, and can't wait to see it on him.  
  
Sherlock's preparations take longer than he expected. Costumes are difficult, and also a lot of fun. By the time he's finished the reception is perilously close to starting, and so he whisks his gallant knight away to the ball before either of them really have a chance to look at each other or say much at all. It's probably safer that way, he realizes after even the quick glance he got of the doctor in his new suit was more than enough to captivate his attention.  
  
They arrive just in time for the doors to open, slightly out of breath, and are shown to their seats. A private table, another of the luxuries afforded to them by their free upgrade, but the server encourages them to "Feel free to mingle, the open bar is under the giant balloon archway," and after an appreciative (and blatant) stare at the dapper ex-soldier he's off to seat another couple.  
  
The reception itself is quite breathtaking. Not entirely gay in decor, it's surprisingly understated in that regard-- although there are clusters of rainbow balloons here and there, tasteful accents. The tables in the main dining area have been arranged to leave a large open space before the stage, clearly meant for dancing as the night progresses. Right now that space is occupied by an ever-growing crowd of men of all shapes and sizes, with their social skills well-lubricated by the free-flowing alcohol at the open bar.  
  
The detective hasn't taken his seat yet. His gaze is flickering about the room, his expression one of childish wonder and glee. An act, although nobody but John would be able to see the truth of that in his eyes.  
  
Now that they've stopped this is the first chance John has to get a proper look at the costume Sherlock has chosen. At first glance it's not remarkably different from the suits he usually wears-- the detective's typical attire is extravagant enough to cause many people to assume he's gay as it is, so only minor modifications were needed to cinch the deal. The cut of the fabric is even more slender, the material lighter to cling more tightly to his lean frame; the suit itself is a deep, sensuous purple. The shirt, black with thin gunmetal pinstripes. Silver cufflinks, a silver pocketwatch in the coat pocket. All in all, the perfect picture of a pampered dandy.  
  
He smiles down at John, "Care for a drink?"

 

  

Sherlock should be proud; the so-called gallant knight has been holding his own, thus far. Granted, the evening has barely begun-- but John is doing an admirable job with his attempt to relax into the unfamiliar role he’s been asked to play. Without consulting the detective, he has decided the easiest way to go about this is just… to be himself. The other man is a talented actor, whereas any attempts from John to be “overly exuberant” would surely become a terrible caricature and would undoubtedly cause the whole situation to come crashing down around them.

Besides, whenever he’s with Sherlock, everyone seems to think he’s gay regardless of his manner. Might as well make it easy on himself. 

John’s expression is calm as they make their way through the ship, though there’s a bit of wildness to his gaze every time a strange man stares at him that he can’t quite supress. And by the time they’ve gotten to the reception and they’ve been seated, this has happened more than once. The server’s blatant stare is only the most bold of these … _eyeings_. John clears his throat and turns to Sherlock with slight smile. “Well,” he offers. “You apparently know how to dress a man.” 

And, with his first real attempt at getting into ‘the game’, he takes a moment to look his companion up and down. 

…The funny thing is, as much as clothes are hardly a concern of John’s, he finds himself appreciating the way the fabric of Sherlock’s outfit accentuates his leanness. And purple, oddly enough, has always been his colour. Yes, Sherlock knows how to dress a man, indeed. With a quick shake of his head, he re-establishes eye contact in time to hear Sherlock’s offer.

 “Oh,  _god_  yes,” says John. 

In the suite, his preparations had taken the exact amount of time required to open the suit bag and put on the clothes inside as indicated. And, as expected, he wears them well. The suit is an understated charcoal grey, with a faint herringbone pattern that John can pull off with ease. It’s a much slimmer cut than he’s accustomed to, but the lay of the fabric broadens his already broad shoulders and makes his waist seem quite trim. He wears the jacket open, with a matching waistcoat underneath; the shirt is black, and the tie a deep purple that goes well with (but is a shade brighter than) Sherlock’s suit. It’s a good cut, it’s modern, and he trusts Sherlock’s taste enough to know that he probably looks good in it. His excellent posture and a slight bit of product in his hair (mostly to keep it in place) tie the whole look together. 

It’s just that he can’t stop fidgeting with everything. Alcohol will surely help; John does not intend to drink any more than he can handle, but having a glass in his hand will keep him from tugging at his collar constantly. 

And, taking a deep breath, John makes his second attempt of the evening—he offers Sherlock his arm.

 

 

John's inability to act, by the by, is precisely why Sherlock is being far more... demonstrative than the doctor might expect. If he could trust the other man to play his part then he wouldn't have to be quite so extravagant, but it's safer this way. And more fun. And, quite frankly? John's typical behaviour is near to perfect for the stoic manly/dom type, so there's little need to change anything.  
  
"Me?" He grins, giving the doctor a disturbingly bold looking-over. "I'd say that you know how to wear a good suit, rather."  
  
John isn't the only one who can't stop fidgeting, although he may find it a little disturbing that the lean detective's form of fidgeting involves fussing with his partner's clothing rather than his own. A tug of the collar here, a brush of the shoulder there. It's painfully clear that Sherlock's attire is in perfect repair, so he may as well pay some attention to his partner.  
  
When the doctor offers his arm Sherlock takes it with far more enthusiasm than the other man likely expected, somehow both following and steering John towards the open bar. He takes his own drink-- double whisky sour on the rocks-- and coos appreciatively at the doctor's choice, demonstrating the very image of the over-attentive boyfriend.  
  
Of course, he does knock his booze back a little faster than one might expect, and orders another. But it's not that odd for a manly man to have a flirtatious drunk on his arm, right?

 

 

John quirks a brow at Sherlock's quick drink, but says nothing as he nurses his own vodka martini. The constant interference with his outfit is harder to tolerate, but he allows it as part of the game. A game that he'd really like to know more about, all things considered.

"So," John murmurs, leaning close to the taller man-- to anyone else, it would look like the doctor is whispering sweet nothings to Sherlock. "What are we looking for? What's the story?" They haven't really had a chance to talk about why they're here, after all, and the doctor straightens to scan the colourful crowd around them, looking for something that's out of place. His eyes flick from person to person, then his gaze catches and holds when he encounters one person who is staring back.

It's a slick-looking red-headed lad with a smattering of freckles across his nose. The young man, who is far more provocatively dressed than many of the other men present, winks blatantly at the doctor. John coughs, twitches a quick automatic smile to avoid offending the ginger, and then pointedly reaches an arm out to encircle Sherlock's waist and draw him closer. _Oh god, what am I even doing?_  The boy pouts, but eventually turns away. Thank god.

This is going to be harder than he thought. John's face is already reddening, and his hand hovers over Sherlock's hip for an awkward moment before dropping it away again. And then, struck by the sudden urge, he follows his partner's example and downs the martini in one deep draught before turning pointedly back to the bar to order himself another drink.

A large, bald, black man in a very expensive suit sidles up to Sherlock while John is distracted with the bartender, having evidently been waiting for this opportunity. "You're a sweet thing," he says in a deep voice that is kept low to avoid the doctor's notice. The newcomer glances quickly at John's back, then smiles a brilliantly white smile at Sherlock. "Care to dance?" 

 

 

The second drink survives much longer than the first-- it's been upgraded to a part of Sherlock's costume, slender hand wrapped around the glass, one finger teasing at the rim. He tilts his head back when the doctor leans in, exposing more of his pale throat, and smiles sweetly. "Mmm, the story." Sherlock's attention is also wandering across the room, then is pulled back when John's arm encircles his waist. _Wait, what?_

He follow's John's gaze, narrowing his eyes at the bold ginger tart, then takes advantage of their proximity. Suddenly, Sherlock's mouth is at John's ear, his voice low, "Disappearances. Couples being abducted, never seen again." And then he lowers his head, breath against the doctor's neck, lips just a hair's breadth away from skin. "In the middle of the ocean. Never while at port."

His free hand slides up John's back, fingers curling possessively upon one suit-clad shoulder. "Have a thing for redheads, hm?" Was that a hint of jealousy in Sherlock's voice? He pulls his head back, letting his hand fall free reluctantly when the other man leaves to refresh his drink, and doesn't even have the opportunity to resume his scan of the room before he is interrupted.

"Oh my," his voice is an appreciative murmur. The shift in the detective's stance is subtle, calculated. A slight turn, to face the other man more directly. A sip of his drink, tongue darting out to lick his lips, finger still playing at the rim of the glass. A coy smile, pale gaze brazenly raking the newcomer. "I couldn't possibly," Sherlock whispers theatrically, with a significant glance in John's direction. His words say no, but his body language is clearly encouraging his new suitor to try harder.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, a pale hand collides with John's while he reaches for his drink. It clings briefly, then pulls away with a feather-light tracing of fingers along the doctor's palm. "Oops, silly me," the aforementioned ginger is giggling at John's side, "Thought that was mine!"

He slides his hand down John's arm, squeezing gently and flashing an impressed smile, "Want to share?"

 

 

The black man is easily read by someone with Sherlock's preternatural ability to observe. _Extremely expensive suit; one pure-bred siamese cat. Attorney-- a successful one, just recently made partner in a firm of... somewhere around 20 other lawyers. Was married until recently, one pre-teen child who does not live with him. Out of the closet with a vengeance. Visits the gym regularly. Lonely, but confident. And... something else. Something wrong-- something off about him. Not enough data yet._

John's back is glanced at and dismissed almost instantly, and the muscular man steps closer to Sherlock. His stance is intimate. "Honey," the man purrs with a deep velvet voice, "I can tell just by looking at you-- there's not a thing on this earth you  _'couldn't possibly do'_  if you put your mind to it." He offers his hand gallantly, a thoroughly confident expression on his face. 

John, at the bar, is feeling a little overwhelmed. The young red-head's advance is almost smothering, and this wasn't part of the game the doctor expected to play. It's one thing to allow Sherlock to touch, and to touch in return. Half of him ( _more than half, be honest, John)_  wants that, and encourages it, even if he'd rather not make it such a public spectacle. Sherlock's voice in his ear, his hand on his shoulder, his breath on his neck... those things make John's stomach clench in a way he'd almost forgotten. What this ginger is doing, on the other hand, makes him want to throw himself over the side of the boat and swim for shore, and be damned with everything else.

Sherlock's words were almost useless, even as their method of delivery stopped him from caring. But now, in hindsight, he's flustered by it. Yes, yes. Abductions, he knows. But  _who?_ And _how?_ And why are they even at this reception when they could be snooping around the galley or the engine room and looking for clues and... being somewhat less flamboyantly homosexual? Maybe Sherlock just wants him to keep his eyes open. Yes, that's it. Be observant, John. Which means not running in fear from this boy. It means engaging. Discovering information. Maybe he knows something.

"Er-- well--" John glances once over his shoulder: Sherlock is speaking with another man. This doesn't raise alarm bells, although it perhaps should-- the detective is probably just on the case already, which is what John should be doing as well. To the red-head, it probably looks as though the doctor is avoiding his jealous boyfriend. "Uh... how about I just get you another, then?" And, with an awkward attempt to be chivalrous, he flags down the barkeep and orders the boy a drink.

 

 

"You have me there," he acknowledges with a cocky grin. Naturally, it's the _'something off'_  that sparks Sherlock's interest. While he expects that the culprits will be among the crew, it would be foolish to dismiss other possibilities.

Sherlock takes another sip, sets his barely-touched drink down on a tray carried by a passing server, and takes the man's hand. "You're going to get me in trouble," he purrs, "Better make this worth it." Idly, he appreciates both the visual contrast of their hands, and the strength of the offered grip. _'Wonder if I can convince John to dance with me later,'_  he finds himself thinking, then shakes his head and smiles up at the dark man. Back in character.

Peripherally, he notes that John's friend from across the room is going in for round two. The detective's expression doesn't change-- it doesn't even appear as if he's given John a second glance, maintaining the illusion of complete interest in the man before him. But as he and the other man move towards the dance floor, he makes sure to keep John within his field of view. Just in case the poor doctor needs to be rescued.

Ginger seems quite intent on creating that need.  _Victory,_  he crows internally when he sees John glance over his shoulder, and by the time the doctor looks back he's pressed himself closer to the man's side, hand still lightly curled around his bicep.

"First time, huh?" He asks casually, making sure that their fingers touch far more than necessary while he takes the offered drink. "Knew it the second I saw you, I can always tell. You're going to  _love_  it here. Everyone is so open, you'll get  _up_  to things you never thought you'd do in a million years." Ginger leans in closer, brushing his hips against the other man.

"Dance with me?"

 

 

"Oh, I intend to," rumbles Sherlock's new dance partner. When the reach the floor, he sets one strong hand on the detective's waist-- and keeps his hand clasped gently in the other. "Long fingers," he says appreciatively, and smiles. And to be fair, he's quite the dancer-- the band, which thus far has been extremely eclectic in order to appeal to all the age groups present, is currently playing a quick and sprightly waltz. The dark man has either taken lessons or learned young, because he leads Sherlock through the dance with a grace that belies his muscular frame. "My name is Basil," he offers, brushing closer to Sherlock. The hand slides down from waist to hip, the curls around to rest in that transitional area where it isn't clear if he's touching lower back or butt. That hand gently pulls the detective's lean body against his own. "I love the way you move."

Very little else becomes apparent throughout their dance that can be deduced through direct observation alone.  _Reads frequently, prefers fountain pens to ballpoint, successful surgery to repair left rotator cuff injured whilst playing-- rugby?_ Nothing else. But when Basil makes eye contact, he holds it a second longer than social norms (if there  _are_ 'norms' in this situation) allow.

For his part, John Watson-- during a single frantic glance-- has lost his visual on Sherlock; the crowd has shifted, and the detective is gone. What that means, he doesn't know... but he does realize that it's probably best to converse with this boy, let him down as gently as possible, and return to the table when dinner service starts. Surely Sherlock will return then.

"Yes-- yeah," John says, and swallows, trying to speak with more confidence. He lifts his glass to the ginger, then takes a deep drink and sets it back down on the bar. The alcohol is warm in his stomach, and it makes it easier to relax. "Definitely my first time. Never seen anything like it." This is very true. "Did a lot of travelling over the past few years, so I haven't been back long." Also true. Then-- oh, god, _what_ did the boy just ask?

"Sorry. Not much of a dancer," the doctor says quickly, but firmly. He doesn't step back from the boy, but he turns to the bar to retrieve his drink and the movement naturally puts a little space between them. "Bad leg, you know." Not any more, but the boy hardly needs to know that. "More interested in... er... getting 'up' to things, you know?" Oh god. "I've, er-- heard some _strange_  things have been happening on this ship." A pause. Wait, he is going to completely misinterpret that. "Uh--  _spooky_ , like."

Smooth, Dr. Watson. Real smooth.

 

 

"Promise?" he asks breathily. With the mystery behind the man still unclear, the detective finds that he is rather interested in what Basil intends. For his part, Sherlock dances every bit as gracefully as his trim frame and the way he carries himself suggest. He moves well within the other's mans arms-- after a quick mental transition from leading to being led. Basil may have noticed his hesitation at first.

He repeats the man's name silently, then licks his lips. "Sherlock. You make quite the impression," his hand rests lightly on the other man's hips, sliding under the suitcoat to press against toned muscles when Basil draws him closer. Nice cologne, he notes. When he looks up to see the other man staring at him, he has to force himself to look down and away, shyly. There's something in that gaze, but _what_. Curious, the detective follows this minor submissive act with a subtle shift in his stance, pressing himself against Basil, forcing a hard swallow.

"Do you do this often, Basil?" Deliberately vague-- he could mean the cruise, picking up other men's dates, dancing... he's interested in what this tall dark handsome stranger will choose to answer, as much as the answer itself.

His peripheral vision makes note of John, still corralled by the ginger, but not in major distress. Yet.

John's comment about travel gets him going about a gay backpacking trip across Europe, yammering away about what he and a mate got up to in someone's backyard while his hand continues to stroke John's biceps. He releases the doctor when he turns away, only to gasp dramatically and press his hand against John's chest, re-closing the distance in a heartbeat. "Oh, silly me, I never introduced myself! I'm Bryn, so pleased to meet you."

The young man pouts at being turned down, but only for an instant thanks to John's little verbal mis-step. Getting up to things, really. He purrs, trailing a finger down the doctor's chest. "I can think of a couple things we could get 'up' too. We could go back to my suite and... tell each other ghost stories. I know a fabulous one about this ship."

 

 

"Promise," Basil purrs back. This is going very,  _very_  well, and the smile he bestows on Sherlock is a real one. There's a hint of smugness-- of victory-- behind it, but it's very well hidden behind genuine interest in the detective. The dark man flashes his grin again, teeth incredibly white against his dark skin, when Sherlock's hand finds its way under his jacket. 

"Often?" Basil asks, with a short, deep chuckle. "Oh-- no, absolutely not. This is a... special trip for me. I so rarely get away from the office." The music shifts to something that isn't waltz-able, and Basil gives Sherlock's hand a slight squeeze before releasing it so that he can move both of his hands down to the other man's hips. They're belly-to-belly now, and Basil, although shorter than the detective by an inch or two, nevertheless has a much more massive presence. Sherlock looks positively willowy against him. "In fact," the black man rumbles, "I had to be _convinced_ to take this little vacation..." Basil's eyes flick to Sherlock's mouth and back up again. "But I'm already glad I did." 

Across the room, John _is_ in major distress. He's just being very quiet about it.  _Oh my god, what-- what do I do?_ Truth be told, he has absolutely no attraction to the skinny little ginger. He's not disgusted by him, of course, but the entire thing is just so ludicrous that it's hard to keep up the act. Still, Bryn's last comment is a lifeline that may well make this entire nightmare worth it. He owes it to himself and to Sherlock to follow up the lead. "John Watson," he says with as genuine a smile as he can manage. "Cheers."

Then, he makes a show of being interested. "Ghost stories, mm? I-- uh, I  _love_  ghost stories." He licks his lips; it's a nervous habit, completely unintentional, and he has no idea how ideal it is for his current persona. "Maybe... you could tell me one now? My d-date seems to have abandoned me." A quick look around reconfirms this, and the despondent look that passes over his face is not entirely faked. Sherlock, where are you? "I'd, er... not mind visiting your suite later, of course, but-- dinner's due soon. And I'm famished."

_Please kill me now,_  his brain comments.

 

 

The detective shivers, leaning into Basil and dropping his other hand to slide it under the jacket as well, slender fingers tracing the muscles they find there. "Mm," he sighs quietly, his voice low and smouldering, "You must get away from the office often enough to work out."

Again, he licks his licks. "I almost didn't come," he admits, allowing a hint of nervousness to creep into his voice. And he does throw a quick glance over towards John, wearing a shy smile. "He convinced me to come with him. Promised to keep me safe. I was just... the stories. All those missing people." Sherlock bites his lip, looking as if he's just heartbeats away from resting his head on Basil's shoulder for comfort.

John seems to be making an effort, he notes. It's just as well that the doctor doesn't need rescuing at the moment-- it'd be a little difficult to slip away from Basil now that they're growing so close. Perhaps it's time to start thinking of an exit strategy, the detective may have gotten ahead of himself here.

"Oh John," Bryn giggles, downing his drink and leaving the glass on the bar, "A ghost story? Here? Don't be silly, we'd need to be curled up in bed with the sheets over our heads and a spooky flashlight." Bryn grabs John's free hand, twining their fingers. "Take me to your table. I'll give you a... _teaser_ , to make sure you come to my room later."

Bryn's green eyes flick down to stare at the doctor's lips, then he leans in to purr, "It'll help get your mind off your date. He's a fool to have left you unattended."

 

 

Basil, encouraged, wraps both muscular arms around the pale detective, which rather feels like being embraced by a large bear. There's a lot of power in those arms; if they tightened, Sherlock might have a bit of trouble. But, of course, the only tightening they do is a brief and gentle hug of appreciation at the 'working out' comment. "I do my best," he says modestly, and impulsively lifts a hand to brush a curl or two of Sherlock's dark hair away from his forehead. A moment later, he continues the embrace.

The dark man's brows raise. "Missing people?" The question is not feigned. In two words, it becomes instantly clear that this man, whatever else he's involved with, has no idea whatsoever about the mystery of the missing gay couples. "Mm... I hadn't heard. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll be safe. One way or another." _If he doesn't look after you,_  Basil's gaze says, _I certainly will._ But again, there's something else behind his eyes. Something that says,  _you will definitely be safe and I'll make sure of it_. ...Weird.

"Well, I--" Over at the bar, John feels like he's getting in a bit too deep. But the table? Yes, the table is safe. Swallowing hard, John closes his fingers hesitantly around Bryn's. "...All right, then." 

Yes. Sherlock _is_ a fool to have left him unattended. 

Carefully, John leads his new ginger boy toy towards their table. His gaze frantically searches the crowded room for Sherlock and comes up empty. _Damn!_  By the time they've reached the private table, John is hoping beyond hope that Bryn's 'ghost story' contains useful information, as otherwise he is going to feel like a complete idiot at the end of all of this. Must stay in character.  _Must_  stay in character. There's the table; John steels himself. Come on, man. You can do this! 

Taking a deep breath and gathering every bit of willpower he has, John Watson sits in his seat without releasing the boy... and pulls Bryn smoothly down onto his lap. "All right," he repeats, tilting his head up to give Bryn a look he hopes comes across as  _very serious_. "Give me my... teaser."

 

 

Sherlock's heart leaps in his chest at the hug-- the potential power there is not lost on him, and that, combined with the fact that Basil has made his ignorance of the ship's mystery clear, is enough to cement the need for an exit strategy. Sooner rather than later. Now would be ideal. He leans his face into Basil's tender gesture, shivering again when those arms close around him. This could get awkward.

His view of the bar area is briefly obstructed, and when it clears John is nowhere in sight.  _Damnit,_ there goes signalling for a jealous boyfriend to intervene. Sherlock tries to scan the crowd without letting Basil know, while melting into his embrace.

The darkness in Basil's eyes is interesting, but now that the detective knows that his dancing partner isn't involved in the case that mystery is of lesser importance. And on another surrepticious scan of the room, Sherlock is provided with his escape. "That  _tart_!" he exclaims, trying to pull away from Basil so he can go confront John at the table.

Bryn skips along behind John, delighting in the attention. He does so love the fresh ones, so adorable and hesitant. It only takes him a few hours to work that out of them, most of the time, but something tells him that John will be a tougher nut to crack. "Fresh!" The ginger slides into the doctor's lap, crossing his legs and leaning up against the other man's chest.

One hand lifts to trace John's jaw, then trail down his neck and end at his collarbone, tracing a small pattern there. "Well," he lowers his voice, leaning in and wriggling a bit in John's lap, "I've been on this cruise a few times, and the stories go 'round. After the frst night, usually, when people start to... hear things. Voices, in the walls. Odd banging from below deck."

He loops his free arm over John's shoulders, barely resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair.  _Not too fast, you'll startle him._  "By the third night, people start to talk about the ghost ship."

"You should kiss me now, John," Bryn purrs. Okay, maybe startling him a little is a good idea.

 

 

Yes, this is going rather well. This is undoubtedly the best assignment he's ever been on; with any luck, he'll be able to accomplish what he came here to do-- and a great more besides.  _Wonderful,_  he thinks. Definitely worth it. And then Sherlock suddenly twists in his arms. 

Automatically, those big arms close on the lean detective, and the way they do so is telling. It's not the desperate clutching of a man who's worried his new 'friend' will get away, it's the iron control of a security officer subduing a struggling suspect. "Wait--" Basil says sharply, as Sherlock tries to pull away. "I'm supposed to--!" His grip starts to tighten like iron, then falters a bit when he realizes what he just said. And suddenly, in his face-- in the set of his shoulders and the way he holds himself-- the story comes out. There it is, for Sherlock to see: the rest of the puzzle.

_Quick reflexes. Core muscles strong; gym workouts for strength, not for show. Security or enforcement background in addition to legal education. Smart, very smart, but not smart enough to keep his mouth shut-- hasn't worked enforcement in years. First time doing something like this. Been sent here. Fear in him now; not on a pleasure trip. A special assignment, and failure is something he does not want to report. Report to who? Who would have a smart gay barrister who started off as a security man on his payroll? Who would have reason and funding to send him here? Ah. Of course._

_Mycroft._

Looks like dear brother has something more than flowers up his sleeve.

_Cor blimey_ , John thinks, as the boy wiggles on his lap. The sensation is terribly strange-- different from a woman doing it, not that he's had many ladies this brazen-- and he's resisting the urge to stand up suddenly and drop poor wanton Bryn on the ground. Sherlock had bloody well better appreciate what he's going through to get this information. Everything Bryn says is committed to memory. Until the last thing. John, eyes widening, swallows suddenly. "Ki--" His voice cracks. "Kiss you?"

_What do I do what do I do what do I do-- ?!_

Only one thing to try. Soldier on, doctor-- you're committed now. "I'll-- I'll kiss you," says John, his voice strained, "If you tell me what happens on the other two nights..."

_For the love of god, Sherlock, where are you?_

" _Mycroft,_ " Sherlock hisses, and in an instant the act falls away. Now Basil has his arms around a very displeased, very dispassionate detective. His gaze rakes the security detail his dear brother has provided, but definitely not for the reasons the other man would hope. Sorry, Basil, it's a safe bet that you ain't getting any of this tonight after all. "I know what you're _supposed to do_ , Basil."

Sherlock's voice is scathing, and now he's blatantly scanning the room to see if he can spot any other 'protection.' It rests on John briefly-- what on earth is he even doing?-- and then continues. Likely just the one, but still. "Others?"

If he was even remotely self-conscious he'd be mortified by his actions. Mycroft undoubtedly has Basil wearing a wire, he must be loving the little show. But this is Sherlock, so all he says is, "Your man was very good, brother  _dear_. Now piss off." He puts his game face back on, simpering at Basil and patting his cheek gently. "Do be a dear and let me go, I need to rescue someone."

Unfortunately, John's rescuer isn't going to get there in time to prevent this. Bryn is relishing every moment, leaning in so his lips are inches from the doctor's, his voice lowering huskily. "At night, couples sometimes sneak out to the back deck to  _fuck_  under the stars," The emphasis he places on the word fuck is entirely inappropriate and overtly lewd. He lets his gaze drop to John's lips.

"It happens late in the night, when the ship is at sea. In the darkness, a ship glides up alongside. No captain, no crew, no passengers. Completely silent." Bryn lifts a finger to his lips, licks it, tongue flicking lightly. "The next morning, the couple that saw it are gone without a trace."

He shivers, wriggling in John's lap again and then tilting his head for the promised kiss. "Someone on the crew told me while I was giving him a blow."

 

 

Basil sighs, his own act dropping sheepishly. Well, some of it. He wasn't entirely acting; he considers Sherlock incredibly attractive, which is why he approached in the first place when he knew damned well he was just supposed to observe from a distance. It's a good thing the wire is a one-way transmitter, or the black man would already have gotten an earful from his handler and things would not have progressed nearly as far as they did. Ah, well. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," Basil says, and (with some reluctance), releases the detective. "Maybe later...?" But it's a vain hope-- Sherlock is already gone, leaving a dispirited man in his wake. 

Mycroft is not going to be pleased with this.

Across the room, John is desperately stalling for time... but time, it seems, has run out. The boy is on his lap, and won't stop his infernal wriggling. The casual crudity of the the boy's speech almost curls John's lip, and he twitches, barely controlling himself from shoving Bryn right on to the floor. _Giving him a blow, indeed._  This offends him mightily; John is a man of honor. A doctor, and a soldier. 

 ...But he's not a fool. He can read the crowd, and the night is still young. Dinner hasn't even begun yet, and nobody--  _nobody_ \-- is drunk enough to laugh off something so violent. It would draw stares, draw attention, and they can't afford that right at the beginning of the investigation. And he can read the boy well enough to know that anything he'd do to separate from him now would cause a scene.

Besides, the boy has data. Sherlock needs data to make his computations.  _So Sherlock Holmes had better fucking appreciate this._

Hesitantly, the sandy-haired man leans forward to touch his lips-- lightly-- chastely-- to the ginger boy's. It is the first time in his life he has intentionally kissed another man on the mouth. Something deep inside him clenches up when his brain informs him quietly that it really did not expect such a thing would happen... with a stranger.

 

  

Bryn has other ideas. He eagerly claims John's lips, hand snaking around to run his fingers through short hair, clutching the doctor so he can't easily pull back. The kiss is demanding, needy. He nibbles at John's lips, and then without warning his head jerks back and John is free.

The pale hand that suddenly rests upon the doctor's shoulder would have been a blessing a few moments ago. The pale hand that is tightly gripping Bryn's ginger locks... well, Bryn certainly wouldn't call that a blessing.

"Get. Off. My. Man." Sherlock snarls, leaning in and giving Bryn a fierce glare. He releases his grip with a little shake, and the startled ginger wastes no time making a hasty retreat. _"Fucking crazy! Fuck."_ And after a little bit of silence from the crowd, everything returns to normal. Just another jealous boyfriend, nothing to see here.

Mission accomplished, Sherlock moves to stand in front of John, letting his hand slip away from the doctor's shoulder with a distinct lack of a fond caress. Pale eyes stare downwards, his expression the perfect model of an affronted boyfriend. "I see you made a friend," his voice is flat. One eye twitches, he turns his head slightly to the side.

"I'm going back to the suite."

 

 

John, wide-eyed and dishevelled, is up out of his seat the moment Bryn is gone, and reaches one hand out to steady himself on the table-top. It was like being mouth-raped by a gay dental hygienist; he feels like he needs mouthwash. Cancel that, he needs a  _shower._ No longer does John care about playing a part-- that went on entirely too long and he got in way over his head. He simply follows stiffly after Sherlock, thin-lipped and pale.

When they've reached the semi-privacy of the short elevator ride to the upper decks, the doctor breaks his silence only once. "Took your damned time," he mutters under his breath. 

By the time they reach the suite, John has long since fallen silent-- he trails along behind Sherlock, more than his usual number of paces behind the detective. The doctor is upset and confused by everything that has just happened, and for some odd reason he feels as though he should be  _apologizing_  to Sherlock. His jaw clamps down on that little feeling as Sherlock opens the door, and he follows the detective inside. If anyone deserves an apology for this entire mess, after all, it's  _him._

"Well," John says, lifting both arms and then slapping them back down on his legs as soon as the door is shut, "Did that go how you planned it?  _Hmm?_ " Squinting at Sherlock, the doctor bolts the door behind them and immediately begins shrugging out of his lovely jacket. "If I have to gather information like that the whole time we're on this boat, I swear to god I'm going to jump overboard and swim to the nearest shore. What the  _hell_."

 

 

Sherlock stalks ahead, long legs devouring the distance. He's putting on a great show of seething inwardly, gaze fixed, his expression flat. When they stop in the elevator he looks down at John, and the show is... still on? Or is it really a show? The detective seems to be genuinely upset, but that doesn't make any sense at all. It's entirely too  _human_  for the sociopath to be jealous, isn't it?

"I got caught up," he replies blandly. Mycroft sends his love, John. Sherlock might even tell him about Basil, some day. Probably after the entire trip is done, as it's already slipped his mind.

As they make their way down the final corridor Sherlock finds himself in conflict. He's upset. Why on earth is he upset. John was clearly working the case, that's the only logical explanation-- he was doing the same thing in Basil's arms, it's hypocritical to hold John to a different standard. _'But I didn't kiss Basil,'_ he thinks, and then gets caught debating the logic of that statment. He did rub himself up against the other man like a cat in heat, after all.

The image of that ginger tart kissing  _his_  John keeps floating to the surface, he can't shake it.  _His_  John. That should have been  _his_  kiss-- and that thought nearly makes the detective stop in his tracks.  _What the hell._

After they enter the suite he sets to pacing, back and forth just inside the door, hands fidgeting restlessly. None of this makes any sense.

"No," he replies simply, then makes a sudden decision and sweeps forward to rest those fidgeting hands along John's cheeks. Sherlock waits half a heartbeat before he leans down, to press his lips to John's and take the kiss that should have been his from the start.

 

 

Got caught up, indeed. _Jesus._  This entire thing, from start to finish, has been a complete hash. 

John Watson has followed Sherlock on many adventures. They've almost been blown up together; almost died at a crazy Chinese Death Circus. John has killed for this man, and there is no doubt in his mind that he will do so again if necessary. Sherlock has saved his life; they have shared a home, a passion for action. They've shared a bed (albeit in a platonic way), body-heat, food, tea, and interests. They've shared _life_ , and it feels like that could go on and on forever and John would be happy about it.

But something about this cruise ship has pushed John past a limit he didn't know he had. For the first time, he's  _regretting_  the fact that he allowed Sherlock to lead him on this wild goose chase. Regretting that he was so willing to follow. He's wishing it hadn't happened.

And he is still busy wishing that when Sherlock takes his face in his long-fingered hands, and kisses him.

_Oh._  The wishing stops-- everything does. The automatic noise the contact drags from John travels from his mouth to Sherlock's lips as a soft vibration. There's a moment's pause on the doctor's part, and he freezes while his brain catches up with the situation. Just before Sherlock draws away, he will be able to feel John's first careful, hesitant attempt to return pressure. And then Sherlock is gone, and all John can feel is the lingering brush of his lips.

"That--" John swallows and raises his gaze to meet Sherlock's eyes, sucking in his lower lip pensively and furrowing his brow. "...That had-- had better not have been part of your act," he states shakily.

 

 

He's not sure what he expected, coming into this case. Sherlock had hoped it would be fun, suspected that it'd help the two of them get a chance to talk about that night, the morning after. Worried that it might be too much for the good doctor to handle. Feared, at least on some level, that it could lead to something neither of them are ready for.

What he didn't expect was for any part of it to be too much for him to handle. But the sight of John with that other man... that was definitely too much.

What he just did right now? That was more than enough.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," he shakes his head slightly, letting his hands slip away. But he doesn't step back. He's waiting, watching. The doctor did kiss him at the end there, he didn't imagine that. And now he's looking up at the detective, confused-- but not disgusted.

The shy smile Sherlock wears as part of his act is back, but this is no act.

It's not often that the detective finds himself at a loss for words. Coming up with a clever retort, with noise to fill a void-- that comes naturally to him, all he has to do is turn up the dial on the running commentary endlessly supplied by his hyperactive thoughts. Right now? Silence. 

It's confusing, but not entirely unwelcome.

 

 

It isn't that John has been entirely idle as far as That Conversation is concerned. It's just that Sherlock never brought it up again, and John-- too confused about his own feelings to engage directly without a natural segue-- could not seem to muster the courage to bring it up. It wasn't forgotten, or even temporarily pushed out of his mind. On the contrary, the military man has done a significant amount of thinking on the subject since that evening, and it's been the cause of a few pensive moods that take a while to shake. It's lead to doubt and uncertainty, to hope and excitement, and a few awkward moments where he's caught himself staring at Sherlock in ways he realizes are probably inappropriate.

And what it's ultimately lead to, John realizes, is that he has a case. A puzzle. A hypothesis to test out, if he wants to solve this internal mystery of his. 

So, in that silence following their contact, the world's only consulting detective will find himself at the receiving end of the same sort of single-minded, intense examination that he frequently uses on others. John's gaze is not as pale, but it's just as direct-- searching-- almost invasive in its intensity. The shorter man does not pull away, nor does he move forward. For the length of time that silence stretches (probably too long for the both of them), he simply  _observes_. 

He observes the lines of Sherlock's face; those damned cheekbones; he observes the pale eyes, of a shade he can't describe in words and isn't poetic enough to try. He observes the ivory skin, and the dark curls that would be excellent to tangle one's fingers in. He analyses the pressure Sherlock had used; the way his fingers hand felt on his cheeks. And he computes the tumultuous feelings that he has for this man-- multiplies them by his willingness to follow him anywhere-- and comes to his conclusion.

Sherlock will see it on his face the moment it happens. The moment the lines on his forehead smooth, the crows-feet around his eyes crinkle in a familiar squint. John's deduction, when it arrives, is enough to bring a small smile to his face which mirrors the one worn by the detective. Shy? Yes, but no longer uncertain.

The doctor's hands raise in unison. Fists ball somewhat roughly in the lapels of Sherlock's lovely, expensive suit, and John hauls him across the single step of space that separates them, stretches upwards, and kisses  _his detective_  quite soundly. 

  

 

 

On that first night, when Sherlock read the doctor's potential interest in him and put him down gently-- remarkably gently for the detective, in fact-- he was acting out of instinct. It's never been difficult for him to read the signs of attraction in other people. The clues are obvious, predictable. Seeing them in John, and then having the man deny it, that was curious. But if John was content to pretend it wasn't true then he was content to let him believe that; a relationship is a complication Sherlock has never had the time for, in the past. He meant what he said at the time, about being married to his work.

But then time passed, and things changed.

He's still not sure exactly when it happened, when John transitioned from being his colleague, his flatmate, his friend-- to simply _his_. Until a few moments ago he still wasn't sure what, if anything, is to be done about it. He doesn't want to lose what they have, what he can now acknowledge he needs. But the pure unbridled jealousy that burned deep within him when he saw that kiss... that demanded action.

And now, with John staring at him, his gaze far more intent than usual, Sherlock finds himself wondering if he's made a mistake.

He waits, pulse accelerating, resisting the urge to fidget, to turn away, to resume his restless pacing. He waits, and he stares down at the doctor, and he tries to sort out how on earth things got to this point, how this unlikely man managed to get in and wring all these emotions out of him. He doesn't  _do_  this, he doesn't feel, emotions are a liability. But right now he feels as if the silence is going to rip him apart if it lasts a moment longer.

Sherlock's breath catches lightly in his throat as he sees John's decision in the instant before the ex-soldier acts. He's caught by surprise, manhandled down into a kiss, but the fervour with which he returns the embrace easily puts to rest any doubts John may have about the detective's feelings.

He shudders, caught up by far more emotion than he is used to dealing with, and presses his forehead against John's, one hand stroking the man's cheek. "Right then," Sherlock purrs quietly, leaning into his doctor.

 

 

That makes the both of them, then, that don’t know quite how they got to this place. And Sherlock certainly saw something in John that John hadn't yet identified in himself, so it's a miracle they've gotten this far as it is. For John, however, this moment is actually an arrival at a resolution he didn’t even know he was seeking. It’s the sudden ‘click’ of realization which makes everything finally make sense. It is an explanation, if nothing else, for all the strange things he’s been thinking and feeling since he moved into 221B Baker Street. And that feels good. It feels right.

And Sherlock evidently feels the same way. The man is an actor—a talented one, when he needs to be—and although he can at times be stunningly cold and cruel when the necessity strikes, John trusts his own senses to know this isn’t an act. Whatever this is that they’re experiencing, it’s real, and the certain knowledge of that fact urges another low sound out of John before they break the kiss.

Drawing an unsteady breath, John does not pull back when they part.

He has no idea what this means for the future. Some things will change, certainly. He’s equally certain most things won’t. But he’s not going to think too hard about it right now—not when he can feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body radiating through his clothing.

“Right,” John finally echoes, closing his eyes and letting his grip on the detective’s jacket melt. With great care, he trails his fingertips down Sherlock’s abdomen, and then lightly rests both hands on the lean man's hips. Though not nearly as long, John’s fingers are every bit as capable of delicate movement as Sherlock’s. They are, after all, the hands of a surgeon. " _God,_  Sherlock." That comes out very, very quietly.

 

 

He brushes his thumb lightly across John's lips, sighing quietly, stealing another quick kiss just because he can. Soft lips. Softer than he expected-- the thought is fleeting, an automatic categorization made by his never-idle brain. And those noises. So demonstrative, god, just imagine what kind of racket he gets up to when--

And the detective pulls his thoughts back abruptly, frankly startled by how quickly he went down that road, not quite sure what to make of the urgent ardor that seems to be taking over his rational thought process.

John's deliberate, delicate touch sends another shudder down his spine. His breath hitches in his throat, heart pounding. If he didn't know any better he'd evaluate his current physical reaction as terror, and while there's certainly a part of the detective that is anxious about what might happen, the overwhelming  _rightness_  of this easily crowds that part away, drowning it out. But no, it's not fear that makes his hands shake, his legs unsteady. It's just something else that Sherlock doesn't exactly tend to feel, well, ever.

"Your touch is like fire," he sighs breathily, running his other hand down the doctor's back, enjoying the play of muscles beneath the suit. Wondering what he would feel like without layers of clothing between his pale hands and John's tanned skin. Mentally criticising his choice of words (really, fire? How cliche), then telling that part of his brain to  _Shut Up, Now_.

In theory, they should be swapping stories, checking in to see if they've made any progress on the case. But right now, Sherlock is staring down at the doctor while evaluating his mental map of the suite and trying to decide upon a more suitable location than standing in the doorway. Although, up against the door would do in a pinch.

He'd just really like some support right now, before John manages to surprise him again.

 

 

Soft lips move automatically against that brushing thumb, until the digit is drawn away and replaced by Sherlock's mouth. For their entire association, John has been a man of quiet noises-- grunts, throat-clearings, sub-vocal sounds in response to stimulus. It's not surprising that he's 'talkative' in this manner as well; he can't help it. It's just that the stimulus is suddenly so much greater, and the subsequent noises so much more... well, wanton.

" _God_ ," John murmurs again, and this time the word is mumbled against the detective's neck as the doctor leans in, struck by a sudden urge to examine that pale skin and the intricate play of muscle and tendon just under the surface. Instinct takes over-- his brain is no longer in control. He's not thinking at all about this, or their situation, or anything except that it feels right, and that he wants it. Wants  _him._  Leaving their place at his hips, both of John's arms wrap around Sherlock, fingers digging into his purple jacket and the flesh under it.

The examination is done his mouth-- gentle kisses, and first, then a hot touch of his tongue that interrupts them, culminating in a broken trail that leads up under Sherlock's jaw; by the time he reaches Sherlock's chin a touch of the doctor's teeth have been employed, scraping gently over skin. Since he has returned to his starting place, it only makes sense to claim the other man's mouth again. No rest for Sherlock, sorry. John's legs aren't weak-- he seems ready to stay there all night long, just...  _exploring_. 

Sherlock's words don't sound cliche to him. On the contrary, it provokes an immediate, audible, and tactile response. One hand tugs suddenly at Sherlock's shirt, trying to open some sort of gate that will allow him to touch skin, which is something he desperately wants right now. 

"I had no idea-- " John begins, but he's distracted almost immediately. "I want... I, ah--" Well, this is getting him nowhere. Fine, then. A hitched swallow, and-- very clearly, very slowly, the doctor draws back far enough so that he can look Sherlock in the eye. "...I need you to be  _wearing less_ ," he says. His face is flushed, but his gaze is steady. And the look in his eyes is hazy with desire.

John's legs may not be weak, but his belly is tight and hot and his waistcoat feels restrictive even though it fits him perfectly. Sherlock isn't the only one who needs to be wearing less.

 

 

"Ah," he gasps when John's mouth finds his neck, fingers clutching reflexively in his shirt. Sherlock tilts his head back, exposing more of his neck to the doctor's exploration, swallowing hard against the unexpected sensation, realizing that maybe it wasn't very fair of him to speak so close to John's neck earlier tonight if this is the sort of reaction even a gentle murmur can provoke.

_'I had no idea,'_  he almost says, but by the time he has the breath for the words he realizes that he's already forgotten where he was going with that thought. Instead, he moans softly at the hot trail of kisses the doctor is leaving on his neck, his free hand doing some exploring of its own-- downwards now, pressing gently as its trails a path along the man's spine, then dipping around to trace his hip. He wants desperately to feel the heat of John's skin. Now. He fumbles briefly at the doctor's waist, distracted attempts easily thwarted by the combination of tucked shirt, belt, and waistcoat. Undaunted, Sherlock decides on a different course of action. His pale, slender fingers press into the fabric of John's trousers, grabbing his arse and pulling his hips against his own.

This is all almost too much for the hyper-aware master detective-- it's certainly a good thing the doctor's arms are around him. Strong, supportive. He's always known that his John is strong, he's seen him take out men far larger than himself, but there's something amazing about having those arms around him, anchoring him. Sherlock melts into his embrace, running his fingers through John's short hair and cradling his head, twitching faintly at the scrape of teeth. His grip tightens when the kiss is renewed, as if he's tempted to keep him there forever-- but he releases his hand, instead sliding it down John's neck to tease at the buttons of his shirt.

It would appear that the detective has the same idea.

He smiles, the expression somehow both coy and shy, and pulls his hand back to let the pale fingers splay across the dark material of his shirt. "How?" Almost purring, tongue darting out to lick his lips in a subconscious mimickry of John's habit. "Would you rather do it yourself, or watch me?"

 

 

Sherlock's grabbing hand and the contact of their hips almost undoes the doctor, and this time the noise is closer to a growl. There's heat there, and very obvious interest on his part, and the firm contact sends a jolt through his entire body that requires a few deep breaths to recover from. " _S-Sherlock,_ " he gasps, eyes screwed shut while he gets his breathing under control.

Calmer now, and his eyes open again at the detective's question. John's gaze flicks down to Sherlock's hand and back up to his face; for a moment, he resembles a child who's been asked if he wouldn't rather have a large ice cream cone or else a big piece of cake. If there was a way he could have both of those things and enjoy them equally, he'd obviously choose that option-- but for now, after another glance at Sherlock's shirt, common sense (barely) prevails.

"You'd, ah... you'd better do it," he says, staring almost fixedly at the spot where that tongue appeared and vanished again, "I'm... not sure I'll be able to, uh, keep from rucking them up." Read: I do not want to pop stitches on a shirt that costs more than my entire wardrobe, but if you give me the slightest chance to do so, I will. 

The space between them required to allow each of them to remove layers of clothing is something the doctor seems to mind terribly, and he can't seem to stop interfering with Sherlock each step of the way. A hand here, a press of his body there, a tug that's meant to help but actually gets in the way. And at the same time, he's watching so carefully, trying to take everything about Sherlock in, and also attempting to take off his own waistcoat and shirt with some semblance of calm. It's not about getting naked, it's about having access to skin. It's about being closer. He's trying to make it happen faster.

It's not working well. 

For a man who's generally in control, the good doctor is a sudden ball of urgent, frustrated energy. Don't draw out the strip tease too much if you value your clothing, Mr. Holmes.

 

 

Oh, now  _that_  is interesting. 

Pale eyes widen at the intensity of John's reaction, at the growl and the heat and the answering throb he feels. He shifts his stance slightly, grinding himself against the other man, fingers flexing, watching intently. Each movement elicits a different, delicious response. The detective has a new case, it would appear. 

"I'm not sure I'd care if you did," he moans quietly into John's ear before pulling back and smiling at his expression.

Somehow, despite the doctor's near-frantic attempts to 'help' in the process, Sherlock manages to seem graceful as he disrobes. He's not in any particular hurry, sliding one arm out from his coat and then lifting that hand to caress John's chest. Slipping the other arm free, tossing the offending garment away, then dancing back a couple of steps to lead his partner closer to the bed.

Smiling, Sherlock reaches out with both hands to pull John's face to his own, kissing him quite throughly before he tugs roughly on the other man's shirt, pulling it free from his trousers. And then he's backing away again, pale fingers dancing over his shirt to release the buttons, one by one. Now there's a pale sliver visible, the shirt open and untucked, and the detective is crooking a finger to urge John onwards as the backs of his shins bump against the bed.

And, last but not least, he unfastens his belt and whips it off, releases the button of his trousers. John should be able to handle things from here without utterly destroying his clothing.

"Coming?" Please don't make him ask twice, Dr. Watson.

 

 

If this is what it means to be an experimental subject, then Sherlock has already proved empirically that John Watson is fine with it. The data Sherlock gets from his testing is very valid, and apparently the results are replicable-- the grinding session draws a growled moan and a short buck of his hips from the shorter man. The noise, this time, is far from quiet. It is in fact loud enough to suggest a potential future problem if and when they engage in this sort of... experimentation... back at 221B Baker Street. The walls are rather thin, after all.

John's voice is not as deep as Sherlock's, but it sure does carry.

With every step Sherlock takes backwards, John pursues him doggedly. He doesn't go far; doesn't allow more distance between them than is necessary. With every touch, he answers with one of his own. He can't take his eyes off the detective-- the doctor seems captivated-- and he draws in an appreciative breath the moment the pale sliver of skin is revealed. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but the knowledge of his sudden freedom to  _touch_  and  _taste_... well, that's heady stuff. 

John doesn't need the invitation. Two quick steps forward-- his hands slide up inside Sherlock's shirt and spread the fabric away, revealing the other man's chest and belly. At the same time he uses his body to force the taller detective backwards, trusting in positioning and momentum to lay the detective out on the bed. He supports himself on his arms, lifts one knee immediately to nudge Sherlock's legs apart and put a bit of pressure just  _there,_ and _rub..._. 

And then John pauses where he is, his waistcoat gone, shirt loose but not yet open, hair ruffled and trousers gone painfully tight and staring down at the detective like he's never really seen him before.

"My  _god_ ," he mumbles, eyes widening slightly. John looks bewildered as his gaze makes the long trip from the waistband of Sherlock's trousers back up to his face, and holds there. "You-- are--  _the_  most... the most  _stunning_  thing I have ever seen." And then he lowers his mouth to the pale expanse of skin below.

 

 

If?  _If_  they engage in this sort of experimentation back at 221B? The jury is still out, but so far it appears that the detective has a contender for favourite new method of staving off boredom. Watching John's reactions to his movements, his hungry stare, the way he moves in a manner somehow both predictable and surprising. This is  _interesting._

The chase, even as it is of Sherlock's own devising, sets his pulse racing faster with each step. There's a strong feeling of inevitability, of having set something in motion that neither of them want to-- or can-- stop.

He's on his back before he realizes what has happened, breathless from the short fall and the shock. It's easy to forget, sometimes, just how quickly John can move. And there he is, above the detective, and suddenly there's pressure and he needs it, he needs more. A purely wanton moan escapes Sherlock and he bucks shamelessly against John, biting his lower lip. "Fffff--" he hisses, clenching his eyes shut.

When he's gathered himself he looks up at the doctor, his gaze slightly wild. Shirt, he still has his shirt on. Fumbling hands fuss with the buttons, then John's words pull him up short and he stops. He stares, waiting for the words to filter through, and when they finally register-- Sherlock blushes.

"John," he pants, fingers still trying to undo that shirt. The task is made a bit more difficult now since the doctor's head is blocking his view and his mouth keeps doing clever and distracting things and part of him just wants to wrap his legs around John's waist and never, ever let go. But there's a shirt, and there shouldn't be a shirt, and it's not fair that he can't get John's shirt off, he at least undid his for the other man.

"Shirt. _Now._ "

 

 

John, at first, has no intention of stopping his exploration of this new, uncharted territory-- but Sherlock's fumbling is insistent, and it is interfering with what he wants to do.  "All right, love. All right." The grated murmur is made against skin, and comes out low and instinctively; there's no thought behind it, but plenty of feeling. With a short and reluctant exhalation, John follows the detective's instructions and lifts himself up onto one elbow. The other hand reaches to his collar, and the buttons there. He glances up at Sherlock's face.

" _Bloody_  hell," he breathes.

The sight of the pale man's blush is something that he finds so ridiculously endearing that it interrupts what he intended to do. He can't help but to bend again, stretch himself upwards, leaning, allowing his body to flatten almost entirely against the other man's while he wiggles just that extra bit up... just for the sake of getting up high enough to plant a soft, lingering kiss on Sherlock's mouth. And if the process of doing that causes his knee to shift and rub further against the detective's groin, well... that probably wasn't an accident.

And then, suddenly, he's gone. First up onto his arms, then with a huff he's fully upright-- practically towering above the prone man and balancing on his knees; he's got to straddle one of Sherlock's legs to do it, the other knee still tucked where he wants it but no longer providing much pressure. And from that vantage point, calmer now, the doctor begins to undo his shirt buttons. One. Button. At. A. Time.

But John's fingers betray his impatience, and he fumbles the last two... with a grunt and a sudden, frustrated tug, he opens the shirt the rest of the way. With tiny pops, the little black buttons go flying off in different directions, and John shrugs out of the silk thing he has no further use for and throws it away. He feels no guilt, as he would with Sherlock's clothing. Mycroft bought them, and Mycroft can bloody well pay to have a tailor sew the buttons right back on them. John gives no fucks.

From his vantage point, John looks down at the detective, his skin brushed with sweat. His chest rises and falls heavily. There are the familiar scars that define the doctor; there's the trim musculature that he likes to hide with thick comfortable jumpers. And he shakes his head in that familiar way of his, as though he can't quite believe what he's seeing beneath him. Scattered dark curls-- it's an effort not to hook his fingers into them. Later, later.

" _Stunning_ ," John murmurs again, and undoes his belt buckle.

 

 

Sherlock feels an entirely different thrill when John murmurs his casual endearment, and if anything his blush grows deeper. 

Against his pale skin it's really quite shocking. And the heat in his cheeks is an entirely new sensation for the detective-- he lifts one hand to trail his fingers along his cheekbone, staring up at John's expression, startled by his exclamation, then delicately traces the curve of the other man's ear when he leans in for that kiss.

That errant knee wrenches another moan from Sherlock, his back arching involuntarily, and he reaches out to wrap one arm around John's waist-- but not fast enough, because now the other man is above him, too far away... or is he. The deliberately slow removal of the shirt is a tease, the presence of that knee effectively pins Sherlock to the bed. But there's nothing stopping him from reaching out with those lovely long arms of his, trailing his fingertips up the doctor's thighs, gently, delicately, encouraging him to go just a bit faster.

Pale eyes gleam with frank admiration at John's manly button popping. I mean, really, who wouldn't be impressed by that? And that's it, he officially can't just keep laying there. Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, running his free hand up John's thigh. Pressing into his abs, rubbing a thumb along his ribs, tracing a circle around his nipple, and then back down to rest just above those busy hands at his belt buckle.

"Yes, you are," he says simply, eager gaze devouring every part of the man before him. Above him. Whatever. He's seen this before, but right now it's as if he's seeing the ex-soldier for the first time. He wants to touch everything, explore those scars and imprefections with his lips. Tease him, touch him, find the secret places on his body that will make him groan, make him beg.

Sherlock licks his lips again, looking at the spread of his pale hand upon John's stomach, and then smiles up at the doctor.

 

 

John has never seen Sherlock smile like he's been smiling here, with him, tonight. The detective's smiles-- genuine smiles, not the quick twitches, or the ones for show that don't reach his eyes-- are a rare sight, and something John has always enjoyed. He's especially enjoyed them when he's played a part in creating them. This, though. This is like he's found the buried treasure at the end of the rainbow. The detective looks so happy, and the glow it gives John has little to do with the heat in his loins or the way his heart races when Sherlock's fingers trail fire across his skin.

The touches bring a hitched breath here, a purr there. John doesn't break eye contact.

At Sherlock's words, the soldier huffs a soft laugh and the skin around his eyes crinkles. It's self-depreciating, but not overly so; John Watson has never considered himself a 'handsome' man, but he knows he doesn't have too much to be ashamed of. He takes care of himself. No, it's more the idea that _Sherlock_ \-- a man who often displays immaculate taste, and who himself has at times an almost otherworldly quality about him-- would think so. Plain old John Watson, eh? Nothing special there. But he's starting to  _feel_ special, in a way nobody else has encouraged.

John pulls the belt free, tosses it off the bed. And he pauses again, one hand resting over the button of his trousers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he slides that hand up to cover the longer fingers splayed against his stomach. And he lowers it down, down... yes, that's it. Right  _there._ He inhales sharply though his nose. Oh god.

"Feel-- feel what you've done to me," he says, his eyes narrowed against the sensation. "Feel how bloody hard you made me. Jesus  _christ_."

 

 

Sherlock has never felt quite so free and unconcerned as he does tonight. There's nobody to act for, nobody to impress. He's so ridiculously far from bored, he's quite literally unable to keep himself from feeling...  _feelings_ , and because of who he's with he's okay with that. And while on some level he's sure that Mycroft is getting an earful (and possibly a peep show), he just can't make himself care-- there's no way he'll ever let John get the idea that the suite is definitely bugged, though, the poor doctor would never get over it.

The look in those pale eyes as he stares up at the doctor makes it clear that Sherlock is looking at someone who is anything but plain. John's right. He does have immaculate taste. He dresses well, knows all the best restaurants and somehow, despite his obvious social flaws, maintains a network of useful people. Sherlock surrounds himself with the best, end of story. Dr. Watson just happens to be the best of the best.

His gaze drops when the doctor takes his hand, and he swallows thickly when it is guided lower. There's a brief moment of hesitation, then Sherlock tilts his head back to start into John's half-lidded eyes, deliberately exploring the taut fabric. "Remarkable," he sighs quietly, feeling the heat, the hardness-- is he imagining that he can feel the other man's heartbeat?

He shifts, just a little, just enough to press himself a bit harder against John's knee, to draw himself closer. Trousers, he's decided, are even worse than shirts. Sherlock's are entirely too tight, and John's are entirely too much in the way. Slender fingers cease in their exploration, reaching up to tend to that button, and tease at the zipper. _Slowly._

Yes, let's just say it is better for the both of them, and certainly better for Mycroft, that John remain in the dark about the extremely likely possibility of the suite being wired. Being the bloody Queen of England wouldn't save him from John's wrath.

 

 

But wrath is the furthest thing from Dr. Watson's mind at the moment. The exploration Sherlock's fingers engaged in is over far too quickly for John's peace of mind; he rocks forward with a small sound, and the movement brings his knee pressing against Sherlock's groin, even as he tries to re-establish contact with those slender, lovely, clever fingers. Sherlock teases at the zipper, and is perhaps rewarded for his tease by the sight of John Watson biting so sharply on his lower lip that it nearly draws blood.

"Sherlock," John says, and his voice cracks. Oddly enough, though he's obviously fully capable of undoing his own trousers, he makes no move to do so. His fingertips brush the backs of the detective's pale hands urgently, but he does not force them to move. For some reason, it is incredibly important to John in this moment that his detective be the one who frees him. "Sherlock--  _please_."

And there is their relationship in a nutshell; a mix of give and take, a blend of lead and follow. John over Sherlock, but begging for his touch, his  _permission_. And just like the rest of their relationship, the power play will undoubtedly move smoothly back and forth from one to the other over the course of the evening, even as it does-- to one degree or another-- in their every day lives. 

"I can't--" he huffs; that furrow is back between his brows now, and John's chest heaves as he inhales suddenly. "Please.  _Touch me_." 

 

 

The doctor is such a delight to observe. Every movement, every sound. Perfect, captivating. It's tempting to draw out this moment, to tease a while longer just to see if he can make the other man quiver, but there's something in his voice, in the helpless brushing of his hands. Something that lets Sherlock know that now is not the time for teasing.

Muscles flex under pale skin as he pulls himself up, depriving himself of the distracting contact of John's knee in the process. But now? Now both of the detective's hands are free, and he's sitting on the bed with John's bare abdomen just inches away from his mouth. "Shh," he whispers, reaching up to drag his hands down the doctor's back, fingers pressing into muscle, and then he leans forward to bestow feather-light kisses on the skin before him.

"Since you asked so nicely," and there's that smile again, turned upwards while clever hands make short work of the zipper and begin to ease John's trousers past his hips. He pauses, pressing his forehead against the doctor, breathing in the scent of him, his sweat, his arousal, then gently caresses him through the thin fabric of his briefs.

He presses another kiss against John's skin, murmuring quietly, "Too many layers," then begins to work the boxer briefs down over his hips as well.

 

 

John shifts accordingly as Sherlock repositions himself, his half-lidded eyes nevertheless still bright and eager and watchful. The detective's touch on his back makes him arch back-- which brings his abdomen forward into the light kisses awaiting him. Well played, Mr. Holmes. John feels like Sherlock's violin... and the sudden image of the detective rosining his bow with smooth repetitive strokes makes him twitch through the fabric almost before the other man's caress begins. It earns the detective another low growl of desire.

But growl or no growl, he's nothing if not helpful. John lifts himself up as needed to assist the lowering of his trousers; one warm, strong hand comes up to finger through Sherlock's dark curls just as he's wanted to for quite some time. It feels exactly the way he hoped it would, just as he imagined; "Yes," he agrees quietly, although it's hard to determine exactly what he's agreeing to. He's just brushed a lock of hair away from Sherlock's forehead when the other man slides this skivvies down.

Cool air on thin, hot skin. He sucks in a breath and his hand drops away from Sherlock.

And there is John, his erection bobbing slightly. His cheeks are flushed, his hair is mussed; he looks at Sherlock indirectly as he drops his head with a mixture of relief and shy eagerness. He feels undone, and there is a thrill in it that makes his heart pound so hard that his whole body throbs in time with it. 

_There I am, there's all of me,_  he thinks, lifting his head again to look up at Sherlock more directly.  _Now you've seen it all. I've got nothing left to hide._

And for a moment, if the detective is capable of deducting such a thing at such a time, his open expression says something else quite clearly: _I hope you won't get bored when this is done. Because I'm not going to get bored of you._

 

 

Again, he's struck by how responsive John is, how perfectly he moves in time with each gentle touch, each tender ministration. The noises he makes, the faint shudder that runs up his spine, the way his strong fingers curl in the detective's hair. Sherlock sighs quietly, endlessly amazed at his luck. What a remarkable man he's managed to find, against all odds. Mycroft would be so proud.

Sherlock's pale eyes are eager, impatient for the 'reveal', and he takes in all that John has to offer with blatant hunger and curiousity in his gaze. With a quick glance to confirm that this is okay he reaches for the other man, gently enfolding him in one hand. His touch is hesitant at first. Exploring. Examining the length, the feel, the slickness of skin, the heat. Delicate, clinical, as if he's committing every inch to memory.

Once that is complete, Sherlock leans forward to plant another series of kisses on John's abs, then pulls back so he can watch the doctor's face while his slender fingers set to work. He's watching, changing grip, angle, pace, pressure based on the way John moves and breathes. But, as in most things, the detective learns quickly, and he soon settles into a rhythm with only one inevitable conclusion.

Even with the excessive amount of stimulus the detective is subject to, the rational part of Sherlock's brain continues its analysis of this evening, these events. He can't help but see what is written plainly on the doctor's face, any more than he can keep himself from going through the circumstances that brought them here, now. 

The physical attraction between them is undeniable, built on an innate connection he deduced when they first met. That connection has been enhanced over time, through the experiences they've shared. From the way he's seen the doctor regarding him, there's a physical attraction that somehow transcends his otherwise heterosexual leanings. As for Sherlock? He trusts John, pure and simple. It's that trust that turned into attraction, for the slightly sociopathic detective. Not lust, not caring or plans for a future together or any of the other things that normal people take for granted. 

It's trust, the one thing that Sherlock has never been able to take for granted. Until now.

And it's trust that leads him to lay back on the bed, pulling his trousers and skivvies down in one smooth motion-- exposing himself, his arousal, everything-- to the one person on this planet who makes him feel human.


End file.
